Complications
by Silbrith
Summary: Peter knows something is amiss with Neal, but the cause is not what he expects. Pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by penna nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003 before he was arrested. The events in Complications take place in the spring of 2004 after Caffrey Flashback, but Complications can be read as a stand-alone.


_A/N: Although this story is part of a series it can be read on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by penna nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. For followers of the Caffrey Conversation AU, Complications is set in the spring of 2004 after Caffrey Flashback._

_See more notes at the end._

**White Collar Division, New York. April 26, 2004. Monday morning.**

With the arrival of Neal Caffrey at the FBI's White Collar Division, Special Agent Peter Burke realized early on that not only had he gained a consultant, but he had also acquired an inner antenna, something that he liked to think of as his NEAL radar. Precisely tuned to Neal's frequency, it sent off warning blips whenever something was amiss, and in general it had turned out to be remarkably accurate.

Lately his radar had gone blissfully dormant. To all appearances, Neal had adjusted well to the routine of working for the FBI over the last four months. So on Monday morning, it came as a shock when he heard a slow _blip ... blip ... blip_ echoing in his head.

The team had gathered in the conference room for the usual morning briefing. Workloads had been on the light side the previous week, and there was not much that needed to be reviewed.

"We're lucky we don't have anything urgent right now," said Peter. "On May 6, I move into budget planning mode for the upcoming year, and I've been told to get our remaining outstanding cases processed before then. Unfortunately there's quite a stack left to be done, and, yes, plenty of everyone's favorite— mortgage frauds. Don't worry though … I've sorted through the files and have already assigned them so nobody will feel left out."

Responding to the chorus of ensuing groans, he said. "Hey, I don't want to hear it. You're not the ones who are going to have to sit in budget meetings. We should be able to get through all of these in the next couple of weeks. So don't forget to grab your stack before you leave."

Shaking their heads, the agents had all dutifully walked out with a batch of files. Neal was the last one to leave. He had been unusually quiet during the briefing and now picked up his share without comment.

"What, no complaints? No snarky remarks about the thrill of mortgage cases?" Peter asked.

"No, I'll give you a break," Neal said, running a hand through his hair. "I better get started."

This was not typical Neal behavior. Normally he would have groaned in misery over one tedious mortgage fraud case, let alone a stack of them. Peter looked him over. Aside from his eyes appearing somewhat bloodshot, he looked fine. But something was off.

"You feeling alright? You didn't spend the whole weekend partying, did you?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. Can I...?" and Neal nodded toward the door. He appeared distracted and anxious to leave the conference room.

_blip ... blip ... blip_

Peter was busy the rest of the day with his own files to work on, but he couldn't help noticing that the bullpen was remarkably quiet. On a normal day, more likely than not, Neal would have been sitting on a desk, joking with some of the younger team members. This afternoon when Peter looked over at Neal's desk, he was lost in thought, chin propped up on his hands, open files in front of him. After a few seconds, he shook his head and buried himself in the files again. It was all very odd ... But how could you give a guy grief for doing his job?

_blip ... blip ... blip_

Early the next morning, Neal was already at his desk working when Peter arrived.

"Morning, Neal."

"Peter." Neal continued pouring over a spreadsheet displayed on his monitor.

"So ... how's it going?"

Neal paused, looked up at Peter, and grimaced at the stack. "Miles to go."

The kid looked wasted. Surely he hadn't spent the whole night working on files? "You do know how to pace yourself, right? I gotta tell you, there's no reward for finishing first. It actually is allowed to take a break occasionally."

"Yeah, right." Neal nodded glumly and returned to his spreadsheet.

Peter shook his head and pulled up a chair. "Ok, Neal. What's going on? Sure, there are quite a few cases, but not enough to warrant getting all tied up in knots. Want to clue me in?"

Neal hesitated, and fiddled with some of the papers in front of him. "It's just … I had planned yesterday to ask if I could take next Monday through Wednesday off. And then with all this …" he spread his hands eloquently and sighed. "If I manage to get all my cases processed this week, do you think I could take the days off?"

"I don't know," said Peter dubiously. "This really isn't the best time. Normally you should ask at least two weeks in advance when it's more than just one day. Some special reason for wanting to take vacation days now?"

"Just some personal matters. I really … look, it's okay if you don't want me to take them."

Peter studied him a moment. It had only been a couple of months since a case had landed Neal in the hospital. He had thought he was fully recovered, but maybe not. After all, Neal was an expert con artist. "No, you can have the days off. Just make sure the cases are all processed first."

Neal breathed a sigh of relief. "You got it, thanks, man."

_blip ... blip ... blip_

At noon, the bullpen started to clear as the agents scattered for lunch. Agent Jones stopped at Neal's desk on his way out.

"You're making it too easy, Caffrey."

Neal gave him a puzzled look. "I am?"

"Tuesday? Lunchtime? Ring any bells?"

"Of course, Tuesday Tails." Neal groaned as he remembered. "And it's your turn, right? Sorry, it totally slipped my mind. Look, do you mind if we skip it today? I've already made other plans."

"Yeah, likely story. You knew I would have caught you," joked Jones. "Still, I can be kind this once."

Tuesday Tails had become a weekly ritual since Neal joined White Collar. Team members took turns tailing him over the lunch hour to refine their skills. Neal had an enviable winning record which he took great delight in maintaining.

After Jones left, Neal thought wistfully to himself that Tuesday Tails were a lot more appealing than what he had in mind. Ever since Monday the first doubts had begun to creep in, and now they were threatening to become a flood. This was not going to be as easy as he had first imagined. For the past couple of weeks his workload had been light, and he had counted on it staying that way. Now, with the rush to finish the cases, it was all so much more difficult. Really lousy timing. It was like he was cursed.

On top of it all, it was shocking how quickly Peter had honed in to something going on, and that had really thrown him off his game. He hadn't wanted to get him involved, but maybe he should just go ahead and tell him. But if he did, would the repercussions be even worse? Leaning back in his chair, Neal contemplated his options gloomily. And it didn't help one bit that the drumbeat of impending doom reverberating in his brain kept growing louder and louder.

_boom ... boom ... BOOM_

Throughout the week Neal continued to be the model of the conscientious worker and kept himself glued to the files. He hardly left his desk except to retrieve more coffee. And Peter's sense of uneasiness grew with each passing day. What had Neal gotten himself into? Had he managed to get entangled in some scheme? Or was Peter overreacting? Maybe it was time to ratchet down that annoying radar.

Thursday morning, Jones stopped by Peter's office with a question on a case. Afterwards, Peter asked, "Wasn't this your week for Tuesday Tails? How'd it go?"

"Funny thing about that. Caffrey had totally forgotten about it and begged off. Strange—I never would have thought he'd miss a chance to show us up."

"He does seem unusually quiet this week. You two hang out a lot. He mention anything to you I should be aware of?"

"No, but everyone's been so busy, we haven't talked that much. Want me to keep an eye out?"

"Yeah, but don't go overboard. It's probably nothing."

Later that morning, while Neal was getting a refill at the coffee bar, Peter strolled over. "Hey, Neal, El told me about a great new place for lunch. I thought I'd try it out today. Care to join me? My treat."

"Sorry, could I take a rain check on that? I already have plans unfortunately."

"I hear it even has a French chef. You sure about that?"

Wincing Neal said, "Not much choice I'm afraid."

Peter hesitated. He wished there were some way he could get Neal to open up, but feared anything he might say would just aggravate the situation. "Ok, another time. I hope those plans of yours include something relaxing. You look seriously done in."

Running his hand through his hair, Neal said, "Sorry, I got distracted reading last night and stayed up late. I'll get more sleep tonight."

"Make sure you do."

_blip ... blip ... blip ... blip_

When Peter left, Neal sighed in frustration. His head was definitely feeling more than a little muddled, and now Peter had him fixed in his crosshairs. More than ever, he wished he had gone ahead and confided in him. But what if he couldn't carry it off? How could he face him? He was so tired; it was hard to think straight. The last thing he needed now was to be alone with Peter and be subjected to the inevitable questions. It was fortunate the stack of files had been sufficiently large to give him an excuse to stay at his desk. The famous Caffrey wit everyone expected was feeling distinctly out-of-order at the moment.

The hours crept by. Working on a particularly dull case, Neal had to pause several times to blink his eyes. So many black spots were floating in front of them, it was becoming impossible to focus, and no amount of blinking seemed to help. Wearily, he headed back to the coffee bar for yet another cup. He had drunk so much coffee this week that his hands were beginning to shake. _Great. If Peter notices that, he'll be on my case for sure_.

_boom ... boom ... boom ... BOOM_

Friday morning arrived, and Neal dragged himself into the office feeling more and more like someone's discarded trash. His stomach was revolting at the thought of another coffee, but he didn't know how he'd be able to survive the day otherwise. _Shoulder to the grindstone, Caffrey. Just a few more days, and then you can sleep. Mush …_

10 a.m. and three coffees later, he stirred aimlessly the cup he had just poured. _What was I thinking? I must have been insane to even consider I could do this. I should back out now while there's still time. I could call and put an end to this. But if I do, wouldn't she think I had let her down? If I fail her in this, then what? _Feeling increasingly trapped, Neal tried to sort through his limited choices, with each one appearing bleaker than the other.

"Finding any aliens in that cup?"

Startled, he looked up to see Peter in front of him grinning at him with a look of bemused amusement. Groaning to himself, he realized he had nearly fallen asleep on his feet.

Muttering incoherently, he fled back to the relative security of his desk, with Peter staring after him, amusement changing to concern.

_boom ... boom ... boom ... BOOM ... BOOM_

It hadn't escaped Peter that Neal was half-asleep as he swayed over his coffee. What trouble had the kid gotten into now? What was causing him to act like the walking dead? Peter went over several possible scenarios, and none of them was reassuring. What concerned him the most was that someone from his past had contacted him and was coercing him into an illegal activity. Would Neal tell him about it? He'd like to think so. But more likely he'd try to resolve it on his own. If his loyalties were at war between old and new friends, what would he do? This could be a big problem. Or did he have some health issue he didn't want others to know about? Peter sighed. If the situation didn't improve he was going to have to confront him. But of course, Neal would just say everything's fine. Peter didn't relish the thought of spying on him, but it didn't look like he was going to have any choice.

Meetings kept Peter busy the rest of the morning, and it was 1 p.m. by the time he could escape. He was relieved to see Neal wasn't at his desk. Hopefully that meant he was at lunch. The only thing he'd seen Neal consume all week was coffee.

On his way out, he stopped at a conference room to drop off some files for an afternoon planning session. As he walked down the corridor, he glanced through the glass door of one of the smaller conference rooms and noticed someone sitting with his back to the door. Peter continued, paused, and then backed up to peer again. Shaking his head, he observed his consultant, slumped fast asleep over a thick, open book; a sheet of notes and a cup of coffee were by his right hand.

Quietly opening the door, he approached Neal to see what book was serving as a pillow. He didn't know what he was expecting, but _Advanced Organic Chemistry: Structure and Mechanisms_ was totally off the radar.

Retreating into the corridor, Peter weighed his options. Concluding that the time to be subtle was long past, he reopened the door with a resounding satisfying bang and strode back in the room.

"Hey, Neal, I've been looking all over for you!" exclaimed Peter with a slap on his back.

Neal jerked his head up foggily and gazed around in wide-eyed confusion while the world slowly came back into focus.

"Sheesh, noisy much? I was just resting my eyes ..."

"Oh yeah? Sure you were. C'mon. I haven't had lunch and I want company."

"Already ate—you go on," said Neal wearily, resting his chin on his hands, too exhausted to even try to disguise it.

"Nope, we're going together. Move it, that's an order."

Sighing in defeat, Neal gathered up his supplies. "Hold on, Mr. Enthusiasm, let me get my jacket," he grumbled as Peter prodded him along.

Peter guided him to a nearby café and commandeered a booth in the back. Most of the lunch crowd had already left, so it was quiet. Peter ordered a meatball sub while Neal chose a spinach quiche.

Once the waiter had brought the food, Peter looked over at Neal who was making desultory circles with his fork and shook his head in exasperation. "Ok, Neal, what the hell is going on with you? I'm not blind you know. You look like you haven't slept for a week, and I would wager you've hardly eaten anything either. You're so tense, if someone touched you, you'd fly off in a hundred different directions. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is someone from your past demanding something of you? I need to know."

Neal didn't look up and continued to mangle his quiche with his fork. "No, it's nothing like that. Although I suppose I can see why you might think that. It's just, well, rather, I dunno, embarrassing. Nothing may happen, and I didn't want others to get involved. If it all falls apart, which it probably will, there's just more explaining that needs to be done, and then people would wonder how I was going to deal with it and it just gets awkward and goes on and on. I shouldn't have even tried. It's a bad idea."

"What's a bad idea? C'mon, put your fork down. That quiche has been destroyed. You've already opened the door—might as well let me in. It is even faintly conceivable that I could help."

Neal sat, resting his chin on his hands. Just when Peter was starting to wonder if he'd fallen back asleep, he finally started. "A few months ago, when I started reconnecting with my Caffrey relatives, I didn't realize it was going to get so complicated. A few dinners, the occasional greeting card, nothing much else. After all, they hadn't been in my life for 21 years; I figured they wouldn't make much of a ripple now. But it hasn't quite turned out that way. Mind you, I'm not complaining. It's just been complicated. Lately, it seems that the complication has been my formal education, or more properly lack thereof. I appear to be rather an anomaly on the family tree," Neal admitted ruefully.

"For my aunt Noelle, it's been particularly frustrating. I think she blames herself for not checking on me when I was in WITSEC and for not being there to intervene when things got rough. So now, she's trying to make up for lost opportunities. When I told her how in the background the Marshals had provided me with I had grown up in Europe, she seized upon it."

Peter nodded in understanding. "Ah yes, Noelle the Unstoppable Force. From everything I've seen, she's not the type of person to sit back if she feels action is needed."

"Exactly. But what you probably don't know is that Noelle got her undergraduate degree at Columbia and has kept up her connections there ever since. Once she got her PhD in Psychology, she'd sometimes go back as a guest lecturer. A couple of weeks ago she approached the Dean of Foreign Students, not bothering to ask me first. She cooked up some convoluted tale about my overseas education, referring vaguely to Interpol, counterintelligence, espionage, and need-to-know restrictions. Somehow she managed to sell the story that here I was—God's gift to Columbia, but I didn't have any diplomas to prove it. "

Neal looked up at Peter who was grinning broadly. "All right—I know." Neal laughed sheepishly. "This was one con even I would have had a hard time pulling off. Over the past few months I've come to realize there are several other expert con artists among the Caffreys!"

"Did the dean actually swallow this cock-and-bull story?"

"No, he wasn't quite that gullible. But she did make a strong enough case that he agreed to meet with me and discuss options. At that point, Noelle came to me, grinning like a Cheshire cat and feeling immensely pleased with herself. My reaction was like yours. Trying to leapfrog into Columbia was just not possible. Besides, I was happy with my life just as it was, and I was not looking for any more complications. But Noelle kept selling to me, and it turns out there actually is a precedent for this. Apparently Columbia has a program in place to test foreign students and award them credit based on the results."

"Wait, I'm not following. What is it exactly that she's trying to arrange?"

"That's the lure that hooked me in. Columbia has an outstanding program in art. If I were able to get accepted, I could earn a dual master's in art history and the visual arts. The bachelor's degree would be rolled into the master's program, and I could obtain credit for most if not all of the undergraduate work based on the test results."

Peter shook his head doubtfully. "It sounds too good to be true."

"Exactly the way I felt," agreed Neal eagerly. "I kept looking for some glaring issue that was going to kill the deal, but Noelle was unshakable and she finally wore me down."

"Yeah, you didn't stand a chance." Peter knew from personal experience how ruthless Noelle could be in achieving her objective. She could be more than a little scary.

"So, just to get some peace if nothing else, I agreed to talk things over with them. Last Saturday I met first with the Dean of Foreign Students and then with the Dean of the Arts School going over the program. Turns out the schedules are flexible enough that I would be able to do the work on Saturdays and evenings. For the Master in Visual Arts I would be on my own schedule in any case, preparing pieces for exhibition. The Master in Art History would involve seminars, workshops, and a thesis to write. I told them I already had a full-time job, but they said that's nothing unusual, and I could set my own pace."

Neal paused to catch the waiter's eye for a refill of coffee. Peter thought about dissuading him from what was probably the last thing he needed at this point, but decided it was a lost cause. At least he was talking.

"And okay, I have to admit, I was blown away by the program, and dumbfounded to believe it might actually work out. I still can't get that I'd be able to get credit for what I love doing anyway, that I'd have opportunities that would otherwise be impossible."

As Neal continued, he grew more and more animated. Eyes sparkling, he painted a picture of what this could mean for his future—the extra credibility it would give him at the FBI and the new doors that would be open to him. Peter just sat back and let him talk. What struck him was how much this obviously meant to him. He had assumed Neal didn't regret abandoning his education. Now it was becoming apparent how much of a liability he understood that to be.

Neal finally paused and then added despondently, "There's only one slight roadblock that stands in the way of this bight and glorious future."

"I'm ahead of you—the exams, right?"

Neal nodded. "That's why I need the days off. Come next Monday, I have three days of testing to endure. One full day will be spent on written and oral exams in art history and the visual arts."

"Surely you're not too worried about that?"

"Monday I'm actually looking forward to," Neal conceded with a smile. "It's the other days that are haunting my nights. You see, I had to pick six other subjects from several different categories to be tested on. For each of the subjects I'll have both written exams and interviews with the faculty. The orals don't bother me, but the written exams, that are another story. It's been a long time since I've taken exams, and—"

"You're freaking out over them," Peter finished for him. "What are the subjects?"

"English literature, French, Italian, and—all right, here I may have been a tad overconfident—chemistry, mineralogy, and metallurgy."

Peter choked on his coffee. "Seriously, metallurgy?"

Neal shrugged. "What can I say—I tried to pick subjects I knew something about. I had to pick three in the math and science areas and these were the closest I could find. Unfortunately gemology wasn't one of the options."

"Or Advanced Forgery Techniques either, I suppose. They're not giving you much time to prepare."

"Yeah, I'm late to apply. To have any chance of starting in the fall, I have to take them now."

"So this is what the whole not-sleeping, surviving-on-coffee nonsense has been about. You've been tooling the whole week?"

Neal looked if possible even more sheepish. "That about sums up what's been passing for my life. Saturday afternoon I loaded myself up with textbooks, and since then, well…" Neal spread his hands out to sum up his misery.

"You see, Noelle did such a good sales job, that she had me convinced I'd be able to pull it off, but then when I actually started studying, I saw that I was going to be in for a world of pain. I picked chemistry and metallurgy, thinking I knew something about them. And I do," he added defensively. "But apparently not what they're going to test me on. They're more interested in the theoretical than real world experience. As the week went on, the more I worked at it, the more I just got stuck in a quagmire of obscure theorems and formulas."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, that's a common problem. University studies and the real world can seem to be in different universes. But I have to tell you, you're going about it the wrong way. Unless your idea of impressing Columbia is to execute a face plant of exhaustion during the interview and then fall asleep during the written exam, you're gonna have to rethink your strategy. Luckily for you and despite your best efforts to prevaricate, you've come to the perfect source. Yes, you may be an expert at the con, but you have zero experience at college cramming, whereas I am a master in the art of the cram."

Groaning, Neal put his head in his hands. "Oh, great, now I'm really doomed."

Peter stroked his chin and made a show of pondering for several long moments. "Yes, I think what is called for right now is the famous Burke Boot Camp. It's short notice but I think I can manage it. Five o'clock sharp we'll leave the office, stop by your loft for your books and a minimum of survival gear. You're gonna spend the weekend at my place."

"Gee, much as I appreciate the gesture, I really, really don't want to put you out. I've got a plan—it's all coming together."

"You call sleeping over your books a plan? What's your track record with this marvelous plan?" scoffed Peter. "I, on the other hand, have diplomas as proof—my method works. So come on, Caffrey, finish your quiche. That's the last fancy stuff you're going to be eating for a while. Time's a-wastin' and you're on a tight schedule."

As they walked back to the office, Neal grew quiet. The exhilaration and relief of being able to open up had evaporated, and now he was feeling more wiped out than in the morning. He hadn't thought that was even possible. It was going to take quite a few more trips to the coffee bar just to finish the day, plus now there was the whole Boot Camp issue to deal with. What had earlier sounded to be rather fun now loomed as a huge hurdle.

Peter seemed to sense how he was feeling. "How many cases do you have left to process?" he asked.

"Just one—I'll have it done by the end of the day. It's the Ferguson mortgage fraud. Not very involved."

Peter didn't reply, just nodded his head.

Once they were on the elevator, he asked Neal, "Have you heard about Storeroom 51?"

"No. Is the truth in there? Does this mean I can finally tell Mozzie all his suspicions about a FBI-engineered conspiracy were true?"

"Very funny. No, this is a special place that all veteran agents know about and visit from time to time. I'll show you on the way back. "

Storeroom 51 turned out to be a small windowless room on a back corridor, containing a desk, a file cabinet, a couch, and not much else.

"This is where an agent comes when he needs to take a break," Peter explained. "You'll find a pillow and blanket in the file cabinet. I'm going to put an "Occupied" sign on the door, and your assignment is to get some sleep. No reading and no coffee, understood? I'll take care of the Ferguson case and come back at 5 to pick you up. Sound good?"

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Neal mouthed an expressive THANK YOU. Closing the door behind him, Peter smiled to himself. Things were getting back on track. Time to turn off the radar for a while.

When he got back to his desk he rang up Elizabeth. "Hon, I hope you haven't made a lot of plans this weekend… I've got a favor to ask. It's about Neal…"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Promptly at 5 p.m., Peter reappeared at Storeroom 51 and found Neal folding up the blanket.

"Are you sure you still want to do this?" Neal asked. "I bet the last thing Elizabeth wants is to have me hanging around on your weekend."

"Are you kidding? I talked with her, and she's already laid in supplies. She's never had the thrill of partaking in Burke Boot Camp. It was always just the stuff of legends. She wouldn't dream of canceling."

On the way to Brooklyn, they stopped off at Neal's apartment, and Peter watched as Neal collected an ungodly number of books to haul with them. "What did you do—buy out the campus bookstore? I should have brought a truck."

"I didn't know what they were going to test me on so I figured I better play it safe," said Neal defensively. "Don't worry; they'll easily fit into four boxes. Are you going to let me bring anything else?"

"Yeah, you can bring some sweats and jeans and don't forget your running shoes." Responding to Neal's raised eyebrows, Peter simply said, "Boot Camp, remember?"

When they arrived at the Burkes' house, Elizabeth greeted them at the door, clad in jeans and a UMass sweatshirt with her long hair done up in a ponytail. "Hi, Neal, welcome to your dorm."

Neal flashed a smile and hugged Elizabeth. "I'm glad to see it's co-ed at least. This may not be so bad after all."

"Hey, fella, no ideas of making a move on my girl. She's already spoken for." Peter glared and pushed Neal forward. "Come on, let's stow this gear and move on to Step 1."

Step 1 turned out to be a short lecture with ground rules, which Peter laid out with great gusto.

Rule Number 1: and this is the most important. No talking back to the Drill Instructor, (that's me, if you haven't already guessed).  
>Rule Number 2: You will eat what is provided with no complaints.<br>Rule Number 3: No cell phones or other communications with the outside world.

"Any questions?" Peter concluded.

Neal looked more than a little nervous. "I think we should make a few minor adjustments. I'm thinking particularly Rule Number 2 could—"

"Too late," Peter interrupted. "You already signed up. End of discussion. Now march upstairs and get into your sweats."

As Neal changed, he wondered what had he gotten himself into. Peter was having far too much fun with this. Not long after, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs and a minute later, Peter bellowed, "Food's on!"

When Neal came downstairs, he found the Burkes' dinner table covered with several open boxes of pizza and a couple of 6-packs of beer.

Peter, clearly in his element, was already dishing the pizza out. "You can have pepperoni or sausage or both. None of that sissy avocado or pineapple or whatever it is you normally eat. Tomato sauce is known to be a perfectly acceptable vegetable."

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Neal said as he helped himself.

"Oh, yeah."

"Any chance of a little wine around here?"

"Just this once I'll take pity on you. Besides, that means more beer for me."

Conversation was light and easy over dinner. Elizabeth kept Peter and Neal enthralled with her escapades as a college student, some of which Peter had never heard. "Elizabeth, I had long suspected you were a free spirit," Neal said, "but campus streaking—that elevates you to a whole new level." Elizabeth grinned smugly while Peter murmured, "I'm going to require a fuller description of that at a later time."

Quickly changing the conversation, Elizabeth asked, "So, Neal, what interests you the most about Columbia's program?"

"I suppose it's the chance to be able to discuss art with some of the greatest minds in the field." Neal's face lit up as he started talking about the various courses that were offered. Talking about his own art had never come easily to Neal; it had always been much safer to talk about the works of others. Now, perhaps because of his exhaustion or the wine or a combination of both, he opened up to Peter and Elizabeth more on the subject than he had to anyone before. "For the past several years I've lost myself in the works of others. Some might call it a way to escape. Now I'd like to establish my own identity. But right now, I don't know what that is. And that scares me but it's also is irresistible."

They took their glasses and continued the conversation in the living room. After a few beers, Peter was more than eager to reminisce about his own college experiences, moving from classes to dorm life to the baseball field. "… and so in spite of what happened, we actually won the game. It was a moment—"

Elizabeth nudged him. Nodding her head in Neal's direction, she whispered, "You've lost half your audience." For the past few minutes, Neal had been slowly sliding lower and lower on the couch and now he was out for the count.

Peter pointed to the kitchen. He and Elizabeth quietly gathered up the glasses and moved into the kitchen to clean up.

"As I mentioned on the phone, Neal's been totally psyching himself out over this. I don't think he's gotten more than a couple of hours sleep each night. It's crazy. What I really don't fathom is why he didn't just come out and tell me on Monday."

Handing Peter a dish towel, Elizabeth replied, "It's obvious how much he wants this. I think he was worried that if he's not accepted, you'd feel that he had let you down. It's hard enough that Noelle's involved. You remember that phone conversation I had with him, when you were with him in St. Louis? He mentioned then how he was trying to discover who he is. I'm guessing Neal feels a lot more vulnerable and insecure when he has to sell himself rather than a con."

With the dishes put away, Elizabeth asked, "Should we wake him to go upstairs?"

"No, let him sleep. If we wake him, he'd probably insist on studying, and he needs his sleep more than anything else right now. I'll get him a blanket and extra pillow. He'll be fine. Plus, I'd like to hear more about this streaking adventure of yours. I can see I still have much to discover about you. How about us continuing this upstairs?"

Elizabeth looked at him with a coy smile, "Why, Peter Burke, are you inviting me up to your dorm room?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter woke up early the next morning. While Elizabeth slept on, he headed downstairs to start the coffee. The lights were already on below, and Neal was studying away at the dining room table.

"Hi Peter, coffee's already made. Help yourself."

"When did you get up?"

"A while ago," he answered vaguely. Peter looked him over. Neal looked much more rested than before so he decided not to press it.

Breakfast presented yet another dimension to Burke Boot Camp. When Neal heard that cheese fries and eggs with deviled ham were on the menu, he nearly bolted. "Oh no, you don't," Peter ordered. "Remember Rule Number 2."

"But Peter, if my brain cells are all clogged with lard, I won't have a chance. Help me, Elizabeth, you're my only hope!" Neal pleaded eyes wide with horror.

"Don't worry, I've got you covered," she whispered back conspiratorially. "Peter, I'm making pancakes, and if there happens to be more than I can eat, I don't see any problem with Neal having them instead."

"I don't know," grumbled Peter. "You're messing with the magic formula."

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of books, coffee, pizza, conversation, and yes, even a reasonable amount of sleep. In general Peter let Neal set his own pace, only insisting on mid-morning runs "to clear the cobwebs." By Sunday afternoon, Peter was feeling quite satisfied with the results and was prepared to call Operation Boot Camp a success. The shadows were gone from under Neal's eyes, and he looked and acted more like his normal self.

As he drove him back to Riverside Drive Peter said, "You know, you could have told me about this on Monday and saved yourself a lot of grief. I could have been of more help. When I told you I had your back, those weren't just empty words. I meant them. And I know Noelle feels the same way. It's really not necessary to do these things all by yourself."

Neal looked out the side window. "I know—I should have. And I'm grateful for what Noelle arranged. It's just … I can't help thinking this is all going to blow up. I keep hearing these voices in my head telling me that you can't bypass graduating from high school and college, and be accepted at grad school. That's not the way the world works. And it's like I have the weight of the entire Caffrey clan on my back. I know Noelle has the best intentions, but the pressure of living up to their expectations was really getting to me. Going to work—at least that was normal. If you didn't know about it, well, then at least that part of my life could continue as if nothing had happened and I wouldn't have to worry that I'd let you down too."

Peter checked the rearview mirror and then quickly pulled off to the side of the road. "Neal, let's get this straight. The fact you're attempting this makes me very proud. It doesn't matter what the results are, but that you're willing to go through this much work shows me how far you've come and how right I was to recruit you. If this doesn't work out, you still have other options that you may want to pursue. So, just relax. Take the tests. There's not going to be any adverse impact, and who knows, you might surprise yourself by doing better than you expect."

Listening to Peter, Neal felt the tension which had started to build back up recede once more. "Thanks, I mean really, thank you. It means a lot to hear that."

Pulling back into the traffic, Peter couldn't resist one last bit of advice. "Just remember, get some sleep tonight."

"Got it. No zombie face plants tomorrow."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Next week, it was back to routine for Peter. He had a full slate of budgetary sessions to attend and on top of that some interesting leads on cases had filtered in. One case in particular looked tailor-made for Neal. Peter looked down at the bullpen and at Neal's empty desk. It would be good to have him back. And from what Neal had said, he was also going to be glad to be back.

Peter smiled as he shook his head. Who would have believed that Neal Caffrey, expert con artist and former criminal, would already enjoy the _normalcy_ of work at the FBI so much. He wondered if any of the agents had been giving him grief about his lack of college education. He wouldn't put it past the Harvard crew to rag him about it, and that would have contributed to his reluctance to talk about it. Back when Neal started at the FBI, there had been a transition period of getting his colleagues to think of him as a team member and not as a criminal. Peter hadn't thought about the education gap being an issue too.

On Thursday morning, Neal arrived promptly at 8 a.m. A few minutes later, he appeared at Peter's door, bearing two coffees from the new coffee house which had opened up down the street. "Miss me?"

"Get in here. Tell me how it went," Peter exclaimed delightedly. Motioning to a chair, he leaned forward in his. "I need details."

Neal grimaced as he handed Peter a coffee. "In a word, intense. What can I say—if it hadn't been for Burke Boot Camp, I don't know if I'd have made it back alive."

"Yeah, right. Now tell me what really happened."

"The first day on art was unbelievable. I arrived at the Dean's office and was taken to one of the art buildings, Watson Hall, and dropped off in a small conference room. The written exams started at 8 a.m. and lasted for four hours, covering subjects from Ancient Egypt to Abstract Illusionism. The questions were mainly short but there were some essays. At the end of it I felt like my head had been taken to the dry cleaners and all its contents sucked out. Then, after a break for lunch and retrieval of brain cells, I was taken to a large, airy studio that had been set up with six work stations. Each one had art supplies for one particular medium. The choices were oils, pastels, watercolors, pen-and-ink, charcoal, and clay. I was told to pick three of the media and that I'd have forty minutes to work with each one with a ten-minute break in between, all the time while being observed by a panel of three professors."

"That sounds like something out of a reality show. Were you expecting that? "

"No, they hadn't given me any advance notice. But it makes sense. If I had been told to bring in some works I had done, how would they know I had been the artist? "

Peter nodded in agreement. He could just picture how Neal would have relished the challenge. "So what did you decide on?"

"I wound up making a clay sculpture, an oil painting, and a pen-and-ink drawing. But the best part was at the end. I sat a large, round table with several profs from the Visual Arts and Art History departments, and we just discussed art. It was free-form. They brought up some topics, but I could also ask my own questions and discuss whatever I liked. That was supposed to wrap up at 5 p.m., but it wound up going on longer than anyone had anticipated. At 6 p.m. they called out for sandwiches and more coffee, and it was 8 p.m. before they finally called time. I was on such a high; I could have kept going into the night!"

Neal paused for breath, lost in the moment.

"I'm surprised they didn't accept you on the spot." Peter smiled as he savored his Italian roast.

"I should have quit while I was ahead. Tuesday morning was spent on English literature and French—okay, not so bad. But the afternoon on metallurgy—definitely not my finest moment. By the time Wednesday rolled around, there wasn't much left to give. Italian I had covered, but the exams for chemistry and mineralogy were agonizing. I could fake my way through the orals, but the written parts were another story. If I'm accepted, it certainly won't be because of how I did on those. "

Neal leaned back in his chair and shook his head, "Monday I felt on top of the world. By Wednesday afternoon, I had fallen into the bowels of Hell. Now, I'm just glad it's over. Believe it or not, I'm actually looking forward to some mortgage fraud cases at this point!"

"I knew you'd see the light someday," said Peter triumphantly. "Any idea of how long it will be before you know the results?"

"Hopefully in about a week. I'm just going to put it out of my mind."

"The flowers you sent Elizabeth were a nice touch and much appreciated."

"Hey, it was the least I could do for trampling all over your weekend."

Neal quickly slipped back into business-as-usual mode at White Collar. It was a great feeling to relax and do one's job with no secret agenda hanging over him, and he tried to put all thoughts of Columbia out of his mind. Peter seemed to understand and didn't bring up the subject again. When he hadn't heard anything after two weeks, Neal simply shrugged to himself. It had been a long shot after all.

**White Collar Division, New York. May 26, 2004. Wednesday afternoon  
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Peter arrived back in the office late in the day after a long series of meetings to finalize the findings on the Atkinson probe. The bullpen was already deserted, and he hoped there wasn't going to be too much work waiting for him on his desk. Pausing at the door, he glumly regarded the discouragingly tall stack of files which had somehow materialized during his absence. With a sigh Peter decided he might as well take a quick look before calling it a day. When he sat down, he noticed a blue origami lion propped up in front of the files. Peter chuckled as he carefully unfolded the lion to find a message from Neal inside.

"Are you and Elizabeth free tomorrow evening? There's a new pizza place that's opened in my neighborhood and I'd like to bring my experts along to try it out. Looks like I'm going to need a lot more pizza in the future!"

_A/N: I can't begin to thank penna nomen enough for acting as my beta, mentor, and general sanity preserver. If you like the story, the thanks are due to her for her encouragement, words of wisdom, and support. Any mistakes and parts you didn't like are all mine. _

_If you'd like to see visuals for the story, visit the Complications board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. _

_The Caffrey Conversation AU begins with Caffrey Conversation (where Peter recruits Neal in 2003) by penna nomen. She and I both are writing stories. Next Thursday I'll begin posting a new story, The Golden Hen, where Neal and Peter are on the trail of a lost Fabergé egg. Caution for dark, angsty moments ahead! New chapters will appear weekly._

_The usual disclaimers: I'm simply borrowing White Collar and its characters for fun. Any depictions of real institutions are not necessarily true or accurate._


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